Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  The bump on her head. It must be affecting her. How had she gotten it?

  She stared at herself, trying to remember.

  She’d broken loose from her grandmother and run to Ramiro’s rescue to Sing the Hornet Tune. Before she could start, an arrow was aimed at her. Jorga pushed her aside as the arrow flew and . . . it was dark after that.

  Yelling interrupted her thoughts, and Claire looked up. Jorga lay stretched across the kitchen table, propped on her elbows. Ramiro and Bromisto stood over her, their backs to her. Bromisto looked a decided shade of green and kept hiding his eyes behind his hand. Ramiro had left his own injuries unattended, except for a white bandage around his thigh in the same spot as her own injury; he limped when he moved farther down the table. An older boy with fair hair crouched under the table with his hands over his ears—it must be Errol. Ramiro and her grandmother were splattered with the same gore that covered her. The only clean parts were their hands. Claire rubbed her eyes in disbelief. An arrow with black feather fletching stood up from her grandmother’s leg.

  That’s where the arrow had gone.

  Her grandmother had taken the wound meant for her.

  Claire tried to sit up, to speak to them, but she felt so comfortable lying in the chair. It was such an effort to join them. Maybe in a little bit. A tiny part of her knew she should be more worried, but that part could wait just fifteen more minutes.

  “Would you hold still?” Ramiro shouted again. “It’s not like I know what I’m doing, and you’re making it harder! I should be helping Claire, not wrestling with you!”

  “I thought men were supposed to know everything,” Jorga snapped, jerking and nearly upsetting the bowl of water next to her. “Ow! By the Song, don’t move it that way. The other way! My granddaughter just needs rest now. She’s in a natural sleep, not unconscious any longer. I told you she’ll be fine. Now pay attention! Do I have to do it myself?”

  “Be my guest.” Ramiro flung up his hands. “I didn’t train with Alvito on the healer skills and now I remember why—too many cranky patients who want to be their own healers.”

  Jorga lay back, letting her head rest against the wooden tabletop. “Leave it. It’s too deep to pull out. It needs to be cut free.”

  “Then it’s beyond me,” Ramiro said. “I’d be as likely to make you bleed out as save you.”

  That sent a pang of concern through Claire. She lifted her hand weakly, but let it drop back down—just another few minutes. Then she’d go to them.

  “My sister is a healer,” Bromisto said, speaking for the first time. “Or she’s training to be one. Elo hasn’t handled anything like this, but her teacher could do it.”

  Jorga’s face was set with pain, teeth bared in a grimace. “The Women of the Song have healers.”

  “Are they closer than the swamp village?” Ramiro asked. “Which one can you reach the quickest because your life might depend on it? Not to mention we’re going to have to drag you through the swamp to find them. It’s not bleeding much now, but the strain of travel will surely do more damage. Unless—can you ‘speak’ to one of your kind and have them come here?”

  She shook her head. “Errol,” Jorga called. “Mother needs you.” She had to repeat the call three times before the tall boy would come out from under the table. When he did, he held on to her hand like he would never let go.

  “What, Momma?” He stared into the kitchen above her shoulder.

  “Which direction? To our kind or the man village? Should we try and Speak for help?”

  He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. “I don’t want you to die, Momma.”

  Her breath hitched in with a hiss. “Is it certain?”

  He wiggled unhappily as if he were five instead of fifteen. His mouth turned down in a frown and his eyebrows knit in concentration. Claire stared, suddenly more unwilling to break up this strange conversation from interest instead of lack of desire. Dread pulled at her. She sensed an end coming and didn’t want to face it.

  “Where should I go to survive the arrow?” Jorga asked him.

  “The man village.”

  She sat back again, but limply as if defeated, and idly stroked Errol’s hand. “Then that’s what we do.”

  “You take his word?” Ramiro asked. “What is Errol?”

  Claire wanted the answer to that also. Some of the fogginess in her head was starting to lift—her normal desire to be involved returning. She wanted to know more about Errol, too. Even from her limited observation of him, she found her uncle odd. Not like any of the people she’d ever met.

  Jorga sighed and turned to look at Claire, the only one to notice she shammed sleep. Claire realized the words were intended for her. “He’s a boy. A very special boy. When Women of the Song have male children, they are different. Deaf to magic, they can see more than others—like parts of the future. They keep us connected to the world and to each other. That’s how I knew to go to Rosemund’s and wait.”

  “Seers? Prophets?” Ramiro frowned. “It’s like the religious texts are coming to life. So he could know about the Northerners—could confirm that they are a threat to you?”

  “If asked the right questions—yes. Errol and the others don’t volunteer information, or at least, not often.”

  “He said ‘demon,’” Ramiro said. “What does that mean, Errol?”

  The boy released Jorga’s hand and darted back under the table, putting his hands back over his ears.

  Jorga shook her head. “Likely he doesn’t know. And he won’t speak to you anyway.”

  Claire almost pushed herself out of the chair to ask if Errol would speak to her, but held her place. Demon? She had missed something while knocked out. If the lump on her head came from when Jorga thrust her from the arrow, what had caused her other injuries?

  “I think we should try,” Ramiro insisted. “Ask him.”

  Jorga’s face went flat. “You should attend to your wounds. There’s a stream behind the chicken shed. Go clean up. Claire will wake up soon. She can help me in here.”

  Ramiro glanced in her direction, and Claire quickly shut her eyes before he could see her awake. It might be easier to ask what had happened, but her brain felt muddled. She need more time to think—for the fog to finish clearing.

  Ramiro lowered his voice. “Look, we need to figure out what that thing was. It can kill without weapons or . . . a body. Kill in large numbers. I felt it when Claire sang at the Northern army—a darkness. Now it’s back. Whatever it is, I need to warn my father. My people have to know about this—especially if it’s what I think it is.”

  The sinking dread grew in Claire. She didn’t understand it all, but this is what she feared: Ramiro would be compelled to return home. A sob stuck in her throat. He would leave her.

  So many times, it had seemed he was on the verge of saying something to her—of taking her hand—of kissing her—of declaring that his feelings matched her own. Heat flooded her at the thought. But every time he retreated. And for the last day, he’d seemed extra distant. He avoided her. She knew his situation weighed on his mind and had been patient. Had given him space, afraid to push and break the friendship they’d built.

  Being around Fronilde and hearing her story of how Salvador had courted her, Claire realized she couldn’t take the lead. His culture believed a hundred percent this was a male role. To make him comfortable, she could wait. Besides, if she pushed he might remember his people considered her a witch and back away.

  Now, the world had done it for her.

  “Just like a man!” Jorga was saying. “I have my own people to warn!”

  Bromisto backed toward the door as the anger level rose. “Maybe I’ll just go find that stream for you.”

  “Have you forgotten who just pulled you out of there and saved your life,” Ramiro snapped at Jorga as if he hadn’t heard the boy. He pointed to Errol. “But you go ahead and do what you want! Though your kind already have a warning system. I’m sure they already know the danger. But th
en, your kind doesn’t care about anyone else. You’ve made it abundantly clear. I’ll do what’s right. You do what’s easy!”

  Claire cried out as her wounds stretched when she stood and the pounding in her head shot up in volume. This conflict between them tore her apart. She wanted to love them both. “Stop! Just stop! Every time you go back to this fighting! I can’t stand it!” Her hands clenched at her side. Tears threatened and she pushed them back—just. “You’re the only family I have. Stop fighting.”

  She took a deep breath. “You’re both right. For shame, Grandmother, it sounds like Ramiro has saved us both—again. He’s right that we need to know what’s caused this.” She held out her bandaged fist. “But Ramiro, we need to warn everyone—not just your people. Grandmother, ask Errol. See if he can tell us more.”

  Both had the grace to look ashamed of themselves. Ramiro limped over and tried to soothe her and put her back in the chair, but this time, she evaded him. She’d sat there too long, listening and letting her injuries make her weak. It was time to be back in the thick of it.

  Claire made them tell her what she missed, growing more concerned with each recount of the taint, the evil presence that had taken out a unit of seasoned warriors and almost killed them.

  It took much longer to coax Errol out a second time. While Claire tried to help, Ramiro went to the stream to wash up and returned as they were just getting Errol from under the table. Claire had to join Ramiro and Bromisto in being banished to the loft, leaving mother and son alone—or as alone as possible in the small house. Claire crouched under the low roof and tried to settle in to listen next to Ramiro, reaching for him, but he waved the boy to settle between them. She frowned and fingered the lump on her head. Was his snub accidental or was he already retreating? Cold grew in her chest.

  As each question came, Errol stared at the floor, shaking his head and twisting his hands together, refusing to say a word.

  “It’s not working,” Jorga said with a huff. “He doesn’t know or he’s too scared to say. He gets like this. Sometimes it’s best to wait for him to be ready. It’s all right, Errol. Momma isn’t mad at you.”

  Claire found herself sliding down the loft ladder that had been worn smooth from years of such use. “Let me try.” She walked very slowly to the table, holding out her unbandaged hand. “Errol, you’re my uncle,” she said in a gentle voice. “Have you ever been an uncle before?”

  For a second, his eyes flickered over hers, and she had the impression of deep interest. Then his eyes went back to the floor. His hair was lighter than hers, almost white. His eyes had the light blue of a summer morning. A head taller, he acted years younger.

  “I’ve never been a niece before either. You know something hurt me and your momma. We need to know what it was. Can you help?” She held very still, afraid to move and spook him. “Something very bad is out there. Our magic isn’t big enough to stop it.” Somehow she knew that to be true. “It hurt me. Hurt your momma. We need to know more about it to make sure it stays away. Can you help?”

  Eyes still down, Errol took her hand, and Jorga’s mouth widened in an O of surprise. Ramiro and Bromisto leaned over the loft rail in a bid to see more. Her uncle led her to the door and pointed. Claire opened it, and he took her onto the porch. The two horses crowded onto the wide area, tied to posts as if Ramiro couldn’t bear to leave them in the barn.

  Errol pointed to Sancha.

  “You like the horses?” Claire asked, puzzled. “You want to go for a ride?”

  Ramiro and the smaller boy huddled just inside the doorway, and Jorga lifted herself on her fingertips to see over them from the table.

  Errol shook his head and led her closer to Sancha. He pointed again, but this time, he indicated one of the saddlebags. He let go of her hand and moved back against the wall by a window as she fumbled with the straps. Her fingers shook and it wasn’t from the head wound. Everyone held their breath. She touched the leather gingerly, like it contained hordes of double-bite spiders.

  Slowly, she upended the bag over the boards of the porch. Out tumbled an empty pot that had contained honey. A coil of rope followed with some other supplies. A variety of Ramiro’s unworn and half-dirty clothing came from the bottom, bringing with it his scent. The smell wrapped Claire in a bubble of deliciousness that popped when a shirt spilled open and a stick rolled across the porch. She jumped back before it could reach her feet.

  The Northern priest’s weapon. The one that could kill with a touch. Father Telo had called it a Diviner.

  Usually a yellowed white like an old bone or a tooth, it wasn’t that color now. Every inch of the Diviner shone the red of fresh blood, lighter than the old stuff drying on her body.

  The flesh crawled on the back of her neck. She traded looks with Ramiro and saw the same fear mirrored in his eyes. Though the color of the Diviner was flat and dead, it glowed with a menace she could almost taste. The horses whinnied uneasily and pressed back as far as their restraints allowed.

  She didn’t care what kind of powerful weapon it was—she just wanted it gone.

  “What is it?” Jorga called in an impatient voice.

  “This is what drew the attention of the darkness?” Claire asked Errol. “This led it to us?” If so, then they had only to get rid of it to be safe. It could be sunk in quicksand and banished forever. She let out a sigh of relief, but Errol was shaking his head again.

  His fingers curled around the storm shutter he stood beside. “Not that. Blood. Blood calls it.”

  “Not it. Dal,” Ramiro whispered. “It has to be.”

  Claire felt all too aware suddenly of the gruesome crust covering her. Jorga still bled from her arrow wound. Ramiro had neglected most of his injuries to care for theirs. She ignored her pain, but that didn’t make it less. Was that enough blood to bring this Dal back?

  How much power did it have? Could they stop it again?

  Claire backed until the wall of the house hit her spine, and she stood beside her uncle. He made tiny whimpering sounds almost too low to hear and rocked from heel to toe. Claire ignored him.

  She might have missed out on the terror that happened a few hours ago, but recalled the hatred that had come during her Song about Dal all too well. The contempt for anything living. The glee and savage joy it expressed at the ability to snuff out a life, and the anger at being unable to accomplish that yet. It seemed Dal had moved past that stage.

  Well, she wasn’t about to lie down and accept it.

  Ramiro threw his old shirt over the blood-colored Diviner as if hiding it solved the problem.

  “We need to clean up and leave this place,” Claire found herself saying. “We’ve got people to warn.” If they would believe the warning.

  She gathered her courage and stepped from the wall. The separation she feared from Ramiro was coming, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Best to meet it like a Woman of the Song.

  Chapter 30

  The guards escorted Telo and his two companions toward a wagon house with a wooden roof and no windows. The soldiers assigned to pull the vehicle leaned against the yoke tongue when it drew to a halt, apparently eager for any respite. After the guards removed the chain connecting Telo to Santabe, he stood back to let the women enter first as a guard unbolted the door. The bolt clicked again behind him.

  Inside, rich earthy scents of root vegetables mingled with the dusty smell of flour. The interior of the wagon was crowded with burlap sacks piled atop one another with barely room to squeeze past them. With the door closed, the only light came through chinks in the walls and ceiling where the planks had been hastily constructed and didn’t fit together well. Telo expected they’d made this hurriedly after being forced to leave most of their wagons behind at Colina Hermosa.

  The light was enough to show Teresa’s round form wedged in a corner, her fists held up before her face in the sort of pose amateurs believed looked threatening. In reality, the rigidness of her stance worked against her. The brawl pits had taught
him well enough that one had to stay flexible, not set.

  Santabe reflected that perfectly as she stood at the center of the wagon, arms at her sides, and feet shoulder-width apart, every pore depicting readiness.

  Lord save me.

  He might have been a match for Santabe before he lost his hand, but not now. It couldn’t come to a fight if he wanted to live to fulfill the reason he came here. Good thing twelve years of religious life had taught him to put animosity aside, because even with those years of practicing forgiveness, he had difficulty putting aside the feelings that boiled up when he looked at her. She’d taken his hand, felt no remorse for the children she’d killed, and ended more lives than he could count. If anyone deserved to die, it was she. A roaring filled his ears.

  With reluctance, he pushed down the burning anger and put aside thoughts of vengeance. He had a larger target than one priestess.

  Justice is mine sayeth the Lord, but Telo wouldn’t have minded witnessing her comedown.

  Instead, he sat on a conveniently low stack of heaping sacks. The dust that rose and the hard bumps under his rear said he’d found turnips. “Put your hands down,” he told Teresa, tucking the stump of his arm under his armpit. Stress seemed to make it ache more. “Nobody is attacking anyone.”

  “She’ll kill us.” Sweat ran from Teresa’s hairline and too much white showed in her eyes. Telo recognized terror when he saw it.

  He glanced at Santabe, seeing the cold eyes of a killer. But he believed he guessed right in this instance. “She’ll do no such thing for a number of reasons. First, if she planned that, it would already be done—the moment we entered this room.” Telo had no doubts on that question. Santabe was nothing if not quick to act.